Chapter 8
After the Shadow leaves me, I sleep again. Somehow.
I don’t know for how long, but when I wake, I lie in my lavish bed, staring at the ceiling and counting the beats of my heart.
Except my heart feels less like it’s beating and more like it’s prodding at an internal bruise.
The events of yesterday throb within me, a bottomless pit I might drown in, if I’m not careful.
Every time I blink, scenes from the Claiming play out in my mind.
I see Evelyn reaching for me. My father dragging her away.
The cold fire in Amriel’s eyes as I begged at his feet.
The memories claw at me with cruel fingers. When they threaten to drag me under, I force myself from bed.
There’s only one thing to do. One way to fix this.
My knees settle into the mossy floor as I lace my fingers beneath my chin.
For a moment, I hesitate, because the act of prayer feels different here.
Strange. I have no temple, no sisters to kneel beside, no care-worn Book on the altar before me.
But I have myself, and Ishanna, and in the end, that’s all I really need.
“I trust you in all things, my goddess,” I murmur. “When I can’t see, I trust you to be my eyes. When I can’t hear, I trust you to be my ears. When I’ve lost my way, I trust you to take my hand and guide me. And I will follow. I will always follow.”
The words roll from my tongue, a comfort that tastes like home. By the time I’ve recited the prayer seven times, the chaos in my stomach has settled. My pendant warms as if in reassurance, and when I stand, my legs only tremble slightly.
With my newfound tranquility, I make a slow circuit around the room, taking inventory of everything I missed last night.
At one end of the chamber, a vine-covered door leads to a bathroom, while another opens to a closet.
The clothes hanging inside make me grimace—diaphanous gowns with barely enough silk to keep themselves up, much less preserve my modesty, and I turn away, relieved to find a chest-of-drawers on a nearby wall.
But those outfits prove even worse, made of form-fitting leather with an array of pockets and laces that defy my understanding.
I stuff the garments back into their drawers, disgusted.
No, nothing will serve besides the dress I’m wearing, with its high neck and its hems that brush the floor.
Last night’s tumble down the garbage chute has left my already-torn sleeve in tatters, but I manage to find a needle and thread in a vanity drawer and rectify the damage.
That done, I frown at my reflection. Dirt and bits of moss still cling to me, evidence of my close brush with death.
Time to make use of the bath, then, I guess.
After peering into the hall and finding it empty, I lock my door and set about the laborious task of unbuttoning my dress. Deep aches twinge in my muscles as I twist this way and that, but I manage to get the thing off, unveiling dozens of scrapes and bruises along the way.
A sigh drains out of me. If only I were at home, Carina could heal me. Erase the evidence of last night’s ordeal with a brush of her hand.
But my little sister is far, far away, so I make my way to the steaming bathtub and lower myself in. Heat floods my muscles, pulling a groan from the deepest recesses of my chest.
Ishanna’s blood, the fae have gotten everything else wrong, but this… This is heavenly. Back home, my baths are usually tepid, at best.
I relish the quiet interlude, letting the glorious heat liquify my aches.
But by the time I get myself dried off and into my dress again, I start to wonder.
Is anyone going to come for me? Or am I supposed to venture into this castle on my own?
Maybe make a wrong turn and careen down another garbage chute?
My mood sours. Leave it to Amriel to abandon me here. Some mate he is, forgetting me like this.
Just as the thought passes through my mind, a knock comes at my door, and I stiffen. I can’t imagine the fae king coming to fetch me himself, but that doesn’t stop me from bracing as I swing open the door.
To my relief, my gaze locks with pink eyes, not yellow ones. Calen fills the hallway, one shoulder propped against the wall, his arms folded casually across his chest.
“Why’re you still wearing that?” His nose wrinkles. “Didn’t you see the clothes in the closet?”
“I did, unfortunately.” I make a face and spin away, then stop to reconsider. But when I glance back, Calen seems unaffected by the fact that I’ve just turned from him. He slides his hands into his pockets and strolls into my room, the height of nonchalance.
“None of those dresses are suitable,” I tell him. “If you can even call them that. They’re more like underwear, if you ask me, and I’d rather die than wear those in public.”
He makes no effort to hide his amusement. “All right. Then don’t.”
“I won’t.” I lift my chin, partly to make a point, partly to keep my attention from sliding downward. From remembering what certain parts of him look like when he—
No. I nail my focus to his. I am not thinking about that. Not now or ever again.
A sly twitch tugs at Calen’s mouth, as if he can decipher the exact direction of my thoughts. “Amriel wants to see you. But it’s almost noon, and I figured you’d be hungry by now, so I can take you to lunch first, if you’d like.”
My stomach chooses that moment to grumble. As if it can hear him, the traitor. “I’m not going back to that dining room.”
He arches one silky dark brow. “Why not? Because of dessert?”
Heat rises into my face. “Yes, because of dessert. It was sordid. It was the single most deranged thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Well, I enjoyed it. But we only have dessert with dinner. Daytime sex usually happens out in the—”
“Stop!” I fling a hand up, the sting in my cheeks intensifying. “Just stop. Talking. Please. I don’t care where everyone’s having”—I gulp past the dryness in my throat, my voice dropping to a whisper—“sex. I don’t want to see it. Or think about it. And I definitely don’t want to participate.”
His head tilts. “Shadows below, you can barely talk about it, can you? I knew Aethrolia was religious, but little one, I think you might be repressed.”
I splutter. What would he know about repression? When he’s so indiscriminate he’s willing to have…dessert…with whoever happens to be sitting next to him? “I prefer the term ‘disciplined,’” I snap.
He shrugs. “Call it whatever you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you have no idea how to actually enjoy yourself.”
I open my mouth and click it shut again, too livid to even argue. “You’re rude. And awful. And I don’t think I like you at all.”
He laughs. “Noted. Now come on. I’ll take you to the kitchens. We can go the back way, so you won’t have to see anyone fucking, down in the hall.”
His casual profanity heats my blood a degree, and I lock my lips to keep from screaming. No doubt that’s what Calen wants, because he shoots me oblique glances in the hallway, not bothering to conceal his smirk.
“Just let me know if you change your mind,” he says. “We can always take a detour. Maybe you could learn something.”
I walk with my gaze fixed straight ahead, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache. “I couldn’t possibly be less interested.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
We wind through corridors that twist and climb, then descend again. True to his word, Calen sticks to back passages—narrow halls where the walls pulse with faint, organic light. We pass no one. Hear nothing but the mossy squish of our own footsteps.
Eventually, we reach a door that leads to a sprawling kitchen, where sunlight filters through the leafy ceiling, dappling everything in gold.
Fae move through the space with practiced efficiency, attending to gigantic pots that steam and sizzle.
Flames crackle in the bellies of robust ovens while unfamiliar scents hang thick in the air—spices and roasting meats and something savory that makes my stomach clench with hunger.
A fae woman with intricate braids and coppery skin glances up from a cutting board. Her eyes widen when she sees me, but Calen remains casual.
“Just passing through, Rhialla,” he says. “The human needs to eat.”
Rhialla’s mouth quirks, not unkindly. “Mmm-hmm. And does the human have a name?”
“Sariah,” I say, my voice smaller than I would like.
She nods. “Well, Sariah. It’s nice to meet you. Would you like to eat in here? Or take some lunch to go?”
I gnaw at my lip. Aside from the leaves rustling overhead and the glowing moss everywhere, this kitchen hardly looks different from the one in Aethrolia.
It’s a hive of activity, with people chopping, stirring, tasting.
But after last night, I don’t pretend to understand the fae’s strange ways, and I don’t trust an orgy not to break out at any moment.
“To go,” I say hoarsely. “Please.”
She nods and sets about piling various unidentified foodstuffs into a sack. Calen takes advantage of the interlude by examining his reflection in one of the burnished ovens. He smooths down his embroidered shirt, then loops a stray loc into a half-bun with a few others.
I look away, faintly annoyed by how well the style suits him.
Rhialla returns to press a bulging bag into my hands—gently, as if I might bolt. “Here you go. I hope it’s enough. Come back any time.”
Something about her simple kindness makes my throat sting, and I murmur my thanks before following Calen out. Rhialla watches me go with something like pity in her eyes.
We climb a staircase. Then another. Only when the steps begin a steep spiral upward do I realize I’m about to come face-to-face with Amriel, despite telling the Shadow I wouldn’t.
Admittedly, that seems ridiculous, now. I know I have no choice. I know I need to face the fae king so I can go into the Wildwood and go home.